


Blood and hunter's helper (there is no safe distance)

by Trojie



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alcohol, Bad Decisions, Injury, M/M, Sibling Incest, Teenage Winchesters, Underage Sex, Unsafe Sex, Wincest - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-07
Updated: 2012-11-07
Packaged: 2017-11-18 04:57:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,429
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/557134
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Trojie/pseuds/Trojie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean does a disappearing act while Dad's on a hunt. When he reappears, Sam has to patch him up.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Blood and hunter's helper (there is no safe distance)

**Author's Note:**

> Underage Wincest (YMMV - Sam is 16; it's underage where he is, not where I am). Written for my hurt-comfort bingo card, prompt _"blood loss"_.
> 
> Beta-read by Kissyn, who also helped me map the thing out in chat, provided some of the dialogue, and the ending (because I have a problem with those).

It's not unusual for Dean to bail for a night, when Dad's on a hunt. He normally makes a thin excuse or waits until he thinks Sam's asleep, and then slips out. And he's _normally_ back by morning. 

This time he's not. Sam covers for him when Dad calls, says he's in the can, and anyway Dad's mostly interested in whether or not Sam's got a fix on the next likely victim of the ghost he's chasing. Sam's been going through county records for three days solid - he gives Dad the info he's got on the last three descendants and the family's old gardener, and that satisfies him. 

'Good work, Sam,' he says grudgingly, like pulling teeth, and Sam bites his lip. 

'Thanks, Dad.'

'You tell that brother of yours to eat some vegetables, you hear me?'

'Yessir.'

Dean drags his sorry carcass through the door of their motel room at two am, two days after he left and nine days after Dad left the both of them there with strict instructions to salt the windows and the door, load the shotguns, and _stay put_.

'What the hell happened to you?' Sam asks, looking over from where he's got all Dad's research for the current job spread out across one of the beds. Then he looks again and sees the way Dean's holding himself, how the color of his skin's wrong even under fluorescent lights, and his stomach drops like a lead weight. 

'Hey, Sammy,' says Dean. There's blood on his teeth when he grins, and he's got his arms wrapped around himself. 'You know where Dad stashed the hunter's helper?'

'Fuck,' says Sam, tripping over his own stupid legs to catch Dean before he falls. 'Where'd it get you?' He peels Dean's nerveless fingers away and shucks the layers of jacket and shirts off to find four gashes across his belly and down over his hip. The cloth around them is ripped to ribbons and glued to him with blood, which is still oozing. There's no way Sam can even start to get this clean until he can get the cloth away, and if he pulls it he's just gonna rip everything up worse. 'Fuck, fuck, fuck -'

'Had worse,' Dean mutters. He tries to bat Sam away, which doesn't make sense given he's pretty much sitting in Sam's lap. 'Get off.'

'What was it, Dean?' Claw-marks like these could be anything. 'Werewolf? Wendigo? Hellhound? Kitsune -'

'Werewolf.' Dean coughs. 'Goddamn werewolf, okay. I was just collateral damage. We need to let Dad know -'

'Dad's gonna tan your hide,' says Sam, still trying to work through what Bobby's told him about wound care. Werewolves don't have venom, he just needs to treat this like any other open wound, but crap, it's a big one and most of the time they just let their cuts crust up and dry up by themselves, but that won't work for this. He needs saline, and the tiny packet of sterilised needles Dad's got stashed in their bags -

'Sammy,' Dean's saying. 'Sammy, come back to me.'

Sam shakes his head, like waking up. 'Stay there,' he says, as if Dean's in any condition to move, but he's been known to do stupider shit when hurt worse, so. 'I can't believe you went out after something, after Dad specifically told you to stay here. Where the hell were you, man, you've been gone two days -'

'Goddammit, Sam, what was I gonna do? The thing came out of nowhere. I just went out for a burger, for crap's sake, and it attacked some girl pretty much right in front of me. What was I s'posed to do? Of course I went after it.'

It's a piss-poor excuse for taking off for two days and not even calling, is all Sam can think, but that doesn't matter now.

'Well, now we just gotta hope it doesn't come after you,' Sam says, easing Dean flat onto the floor and getting up for the spare bag of salt. Dad'll pitch a fit if he uses it all up, but he'll also pitch a fit if Dean gets blood poisoning. 'Don't move, I'm getting the needles,' he says, trying to sound like he knows what the hell he's doing.

He boils up water and salt and gets the bottle of crappy hooch out of where Dad thinks he's got it hidden, and then there's nothing for it but the needles too.

An old t-shirt soaked in the saltwater, cooled to tepid, is how he gets the rest of Dean's shirt off him, and then there's no denying how bad the gashes are. Technically they're superficial, cos if a werewolf wanted to it could have scooped Dean's organs out like breaking open a pinata, but they're deep enough that the skin on either side parts like opening a book when Sam runs the cloth over them. 

Dean's gasping wetly into his forearm. Sam is trying to be as careful as he can but this was always gonna hurt. 

When he's got the cuts clean, when they're gleaming red and wet and Dean's breathing has calmed down, he threads the needle and takes a moment to force himself to stop thinking about how he's about to sew up a hole in his own brother. 

'I'm gonna -' he starts, and Dean wrenches his arm away from his face. It's all red-raw where he's been biting. 

'Just do it, Sammy,' he growls. 'Get it done.'

Between the two of them, half the bottle of hooch gets drunk by the time they're done, not that it seems to do anything. Sam's sutures are a mess, but at least Dean isn't bleeding any more - they're firm even if they're not as neat as Sam'd like. He washes the rest of the blood on Dean's skin away with the last of the home-made saline, after Dean finally passes out. 

Even wiped clean, there's no mistaking that it's a clawmark, ripping across Dean's body. Last time Sam saw Dean, he'd just shucked on his pants after his shower, getting ready to go out, and they'd been bickering about whether he should be leaving at all, and his chest and stomach had been clean, whole, smooth, with his jeans hanging off his hips, before he'd dragged his shirt on. Sam has spent a lot of the days since then, on his own, thinking about that in ways he doesn't like to analyse. 

But now ...

Sam feels sick. He cleans up what he can, whatever isn't rubbed into blankets, and then picks Dean up as carefully as he can. He's heavy, dead weight, but Sam's grown (again) this last year, and so he can hook one arm under the crook of Dean's knees and get the other around his shoulder and lift him, real gentle. Sam gets him on the bed and throws the soaking wet, pink-stained shirt in the trash. 

Dean stirs, and blinks up at Sam, and Sam should really just go clear up the papers and lie in the other bed, and try to sleep, but ...

He curls up along Dean's side, instead. They used to do this all the time, until they got too big, and then one bed didn't quite fit, and anyway Dad started to look at them oddly if he found them. Hasn't stopped Sam missing it. It feels right, it always has. Feels safe, lets him rest a little easier. After what he's just had to do, Sam could use a little 'safe'. 

And Dean could use a little rest of his own. Sam tries to will them both to sleep, but it doesn't happen. Dean blinks at him slowly, and he reaches a hand across like he's gonna touch Sam's face, but he can't twist, not all cut up like that, and so he can't reach. His arm stretches across his body, across the mattress between them. 

He looks so peaceful, and Sam's so, so scared for a moment that it's not just blood loss and it's not just shock, that Dean's about to check out for good here. Sam wants to hold onto him like an anchor, suddenly desperate to know that his brother's real, really here, really solid. It happens at times like this, when Sam's been on his own for a while - Dean'll come home and Sam'll latch on like a limpet and reassure himself. It was probably cute when he was seven. It was probably fucking annoying when he was thirteen. 

Now he's sixteen and he wants a lot more than just being held, things he can't rationalise even to himself, and that he sure as hell will never ask for. Sometimes he thinks Dean knows it, because sometimes he'll go weird about being around Sam for a while, won't even pat him on the shoulder, and then usually he'll disappear for an evening while Dad's out on a hunt, and he'll come back smelling of bar and other people, and he'll be okay with Sam's presence again. 

Sam should get up right now and sleep somewhere else, because Dean's hurt and needs his rest, but Sam's tired, and lonely, and he just wants his brother, okay. There's a safe six inches between them. 

But then Dean smiles, licks his lips, and Sam's suddenly hyperaware of how little space six inches actually is. 'C'mere, Sammy,' Dean says, voice rough like he's been yelling. He drags himself across the mattress, wincing. 'C'mere,' he murmurs, and now he's close enough to touch, to bury his fingers in Sam's hair, starting to curl at the top of his ears because it's been weeks since he had the time to get it cut. 'S'okay. We're good, buddy. You did good,' he says against Sam's parted lips.

Sam tastes blood and booze out of Dean's mouth, tongues the corner of it where Dean's bottom lip is always cracked, and Dean opens for him, takes him over, licks into him and breathes into him until Sam's just doing what he's told, until Dean's taking his hands and putting them where he wants them, and Sam's undoing Dean's fly, and Dean's breathing hard but not like before, not like he's hurt but like he's horny. 

Sam's crawled up, arched half-over Dean's mostly naked body and trying to keep him still, to stay off his wounds. With one hand fisted in the pillowcase next to Dean's head, the other in Dean's pants, in his boxers, Sam's doing his best but Dean's rolling up into Sam's touch and his kiss at once, too much movement for a guy with new stitches. 

'Careful,' Sam mutters at him, trying to work out how to do this, how to fit his hand around another guy's cock, how to _process what he's doing_. And Dean does settle down, a bit, and Sam starts to get into this, the slide of Dean's skin all soft between his fingers over hardness underneath, iron or something like it, and on the way down, all the way down, Dean's … his balls, all pressed up by the underwear against where Sam's hand is going. It seems so logical to let go a little and slide down to touch them too, and Dean makes a hell of a noise when he does it, more noise than when he came in bleeding his guts out. 

Dean's thighs part, spread wide, and Sam catches the waistband of his shorts to pull them down, get them out of the way so he can keep touching. 

'That's good, Sammy,' Dean mutters. 'Real good, yeah, just like that -' It makes Sam blush, and have to bite the inside of his cheek, and his fingers slip down, behind and back. 

This shouldn't be any different, but Sam hesitates. This is - this is further, somehow, a whole lot further, and he doesn't want to jump this gap in case it widens under his feet and he falls. He's huffing breaths against the untorn skin of Dean's shoulder, not quite looking at what he's doing, and still holding back. 

The idea makes the blood pound in him and he doesn't know why. 

'C'mon, Sammy.' It's almost a growl, it startles the hell out of Sam. Dean's eyes are screwed shut, he's quaking with every breath. 'That too, _fuck_ , yeah.'

It's nearly all Sam can take, putting his fingers there, rubbing his fingertips against his big brother's hole. He kind of wants to push there, where he knows it'll give, and by now Dean's swearing at him, trying to pull him closer, but even fit and healthy, he doesn't have the strength to move Sam if Sam doesn't want to be moved, not any more. And Sam doesn't. This is - he has to take this slow, careful, he has to think about this. 'Please, Sammy, please _fuck_ -' Dean's muttering, over and over. 'Get _in_ me, fucking get in me -'

He's got his own hand on his cock, stripping it fast. 'C'mon,' he says, 'will you just -'

Sam's staring now, at Dean jerking off, at the practiced push of his cock through his fingers. 'I don't - I haven't -' he tries, stutters, because he hasn't, nothing like this, none of it - not with a guy, not with a girl, not with anyone, and okay, he knows the facts but these aren't the facts he's easing his fingertips against. Suddenly the idea that this is what Dean's doing when he runs off at nights occurs to him, blindsides him with arousal and jealousy all at once. 

Dean groans, tries to push himself up on his one free arm. 'Get the - get something wet-' he says, and then 'No, fuck, don't go -' as Sam tries to do what he's told. 'Just spit on your goddamn fingers, Sammy, please, you gotta get me wet -'

And Sam's opening his brother up on spit slick fingers, and there's not quite enough room even with Dean's thighs spread wide as they'll go, but Sam gets all the leverage he can and holds on, cos Dean's screwing himself against Sam's hand, single-minded, and he's gonna hurt himself more if he doesn't get what he wants, that's one thing Sam knows about Dean.

'It's the blood loss,' Sam mutters to himself, cos he's gotta stay grounded or he swears he'll come. Dean's being such a whore for it, for this, for fingers up his ass, Sam can't help but think of pornos, of Dean in bars looking for this, of some stranger doing this for Dean, _to Dean_ and that doesn't help.

'That's enough,' Dean grinds out, his hand tight around himself now, squeezing like he's trying to stop himself. 'Just fucking get in me now, fuck, your fingers, Sammy, always thought - you just - in, please, I need you _in_ -'

Sam shakes, fumbles his jeans off, and the pressure of his boxers as he yanks them down almost does for him too soon. He pulls his fingers free and it all just closes up again, that space he was pushing into slides back to how it was before. 

He doesn't think he's going to fit. How can he fit? How can anything - there's no space down there, but Dean's legs come up to drag at him, brace against him, and Sam doesn't know how the hell this is gonna work but he kneels up anyway. Dean's got his hands fisted in the baggy cloth of Sam's shirt, reeling Sam in until his cockhead's touching where his fingers were before, and harder, 'til he starts to push _in_. And how can anything stretch like that, from a tiny curl of muscle to a space inside, even under pressure?

Sam spits on his palm again, tries to get more wetness where it's needed, over and through the crease of Dean's ass, his fingers sliding in the precome slipping and slicking his own cock when he, for the first time in all this, puts a hand on himself. He bites his lip to stop from crying out at the touch, puts his other hand out to steady himself, and almost falls on Dean.

The way in is giving for him, slow and sure, but Sam doesn't know if he can last, doesn't know if he can make it all the way home. 

Dean lets himself go, lets his cock free against his belly and grabs his own ass, pulls himself open and suddenly Sam's further in, faster than he thought could happen. 'Fuck, Dean -' Sam gasps, and his body knows, man, it knows what they both want because he can't help the way his hips go forward, humping, shunting in on instinct. Shouldn't instinct shut you down when it's family you're fucking? Shouldn't this be wrong? But it isn't, it fucking isn't. Dean's body curves, and Sam's got no idea what the fuck any more except this is _right_ , this is what he's wanted all along.

His higher brain has given in to just moving the way his lizard brain wants him to, fucking into Dean while Dean drags himself open wider and Sam closer in. The stitches Sam put in him are taking the punishment, holding, but pulling red. 

Sam buries his face in the sweaty crook of Dean's neck, where he used to hide when he was a kid, when the monster he thought was under his bed didn't care about salt, when everything was scarier than he could take. Dean's safe, he's Sam's only safe place, the only one ever, and tonight Sam was terrified for him, because Dean's so strong, and he came home all cut to pieces.

'Fuck, Sam, I wanted - so long - I needed this - needed you -' Dean's saying, shaking. 'You always take care of me so good, Sammy -'

And he doesn't, that's all wrong, because look at this, like always, Sam's lost and Dean's showing him the way. He's wrapping himself around Sam, pushing up all sweaty against Sam's skin, pushing his hands up under Sam's shirt like a hug, and fuck, he really is shaking, the way you shake when you're at your limit. He's wet, the length of him against Sam's belly and shirt hems, and Sam would try and get a hand in there to help him out but he needs both of them flat on the mattress to keep his weight supported. He can do that right at least even if he can't do anything else - he feels huge and stupid and clumsy and selfish and he just wants to hold off coming long enough - just long enough for Dean to get there first. 

It's coming for him like a freight train, though, and he holds his breath and he bites his lip and he nearly bites _Dean_ too, his face still buried in Dean's shoulder - and Dean says 'Do it in me, Sammy,' with his voice tight and strained. Sam pulls his head up to look at him, and Dean growls 'You heard me,' and grabs him by the back of the head, crashes their mouths together into something that tastes like a kiss. And there's nothing left for Sam but to give Dean what he wants, spasming into him, all his control gone.

'Oh, fuck, Sammy,' Dean whispers against Sam's suddenly-dry mouth, jerking under his weight, heat spreading between them. 'Sammy -'

And then there's just the wet sound of Dean's breathing, and Sam thinks _shit is that - is it blood or is it sweat or is it come, has he popped his stitches -_ and he thinks of the way it smells in here and he thinks there's gonna be so much to clean up now, and he only half means that literally. 

He eases himself off and out, Dean wincing at every movement, but he hasn't broken his stitches, thank God. Most of his torso is already starting to shade purple with bruising, but all the mess is … is not blood. A motel towel and some warm water out of the tap fix it up, although he has to stop Dean trying to get up and help, because he'll probably faint. 

Sam shoves all the research off onto the floor and climbs onto the other bed. He doesn't know where his pants are and he doesn't care, but if Dad comes back tomorrow morning - well, he's slept in the nude before but sleeping semi-nude in the same bed as his brother, that'll take explaining he doesn't wanna have to do. 

'Sam, why're you -' says Dean, groggy and hoarse. 

'Because you need to sleep, Dean,' Sam says. 'We both do.'

They both need a lot of things. Sam isn't sure if they've got any of them tonight.


End file.
